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From Marjorie Gosling

Most days, my creative voice takes the shape of a demon,Emerging from the creeping most to traceThe outline of my cheek,Brittle fingernail slowly drawing across my skin.Yellow eyes gleaming with hunger and lust,Dank breath rendering me captive,My demon helps me undress, and showsMe how to peel back my breastsHow to unhinge my ribs, one byOne.Together we stare at my exposedRedness, the push pull of my lungs & theVague rattle of my voice box.Slowly, the demon reaches in and cups myHeart; sighing as if in peace,As if in relief. Then it pulls itself inside of me and rests against my spine,Running hands along the lines inside of me,it falls asleep.Morning sweeps to afternoon to evening'sFalling and stars appearAs I stand under oak trees,Barely breathingGrass against my ankles and ribs flungOpen like an emptyBird cage and the demonSleeps on.

Once true night has set,Black as squid ink,My demon wakes & stretches,Wiping it's face like a small child.Smiling and unkempt, itSteps out of me andBegins to put me back together.Ribs interlocking once more,Skin stitched together with hair from my headMy clothes, dewy & stiff, are awkwardly slid over limbs & I have toLean against the demon for support.As my hand brushes itsshoulder, I feel the transformation that the day had brought,No more flaking scalesNo more brittle bonesWarmth spreading from its skin to mine,A fuzzy halo of blond curls bounces as it leans down to put my socks & shoes on.

It stands & eyes meet.Hazel to hazel,Same shapeSame smileAnd if you ask me today,My creative voice is me as a child,Mischievous and curious,Painting along my spine and sleeping nextTo my heart.